F. Campbell - Slave Girl and the lash

"Greater love hath no wench… " The voice was sarcastic. "Dammit, these two have a thing going!"

"Wish Flossie loved me like that." James shook his head sadly. "O.K., O.K. You've made me feel like a bastard. We'll return to the business at hand." He made a wry motion. "I'd never have believed what an erotic joy it is to whip a naked girl." He eyed his companions ruefully. "How'd it hit you?"

"I've got a simply shocking erection," one admitted.

"I couldn't have borne the fifty," said the other. "I'd have been obliged to fuck one of them if we'd continued." Men! They're nothing but a throbbing penis. They're like those metal detectors you scan the ground with. They pick up a girl's sex and go beep, beep! Absurd creatures!

"Sorry and all that, Miss Harding. Just too damn inviting, y'know." James sounded as though he meant it. I stepped away from my hurt darling. She was quietly sobbing and rubbing her wet cheeks against her strapped arms. I watched, amazed, the thing James did next. Extracting a slip of paper from his wallet he used a thumb tack to affix it to the whipping post before the eyes of the girl who was it's captive. Moving closer I read its message. It was a Roland Bolling cheque for one hundred thousand pounds in favour of Yolanda Harding. Whether she or I liked it or not, I was paid for. The rest was swift. My ankles were roped together. One of the boys had found the blanket I had yearned for through dungeon nights. I was laid on it and rolled into a dark bundle. The last I saw of Yola was a wealed back and two wide and anguished eyes. Rope went 'round and 'round the blanket and me. In helpless sightlessness I was carried from Castle Glynt.

It was a long journey. I guessed it to be in the back seat of a car. I wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was better than the boot. After a few experimental twitchings I gave up the idea of escape or getting loose. I just endured. Slave girls get used to it. There was conversation but it didn't come through the blanket enough to help. I was then carried around a lot, put down, picked up, and finally stood upright. Strong hands steadied me while others stripped me of the rope and the blanket. While I was still blinking they also untied my ankles.

"Superb!" The voice was foreign. The approval sincere. "We were certain you would be pleased, sir." James Pollard's tone was deferential. Everything I saw spelt money. The room was a library, or study, or office, or all three. There was a business-like desk. I stood before it where I had been placed. Gazing at me across it's polished surface was a man, undistinguished save for that faintly withered look that comes from a lifetime of worrying about large sums of money. James Pollard lolled negligently in a chair to one side. He winked at me. It was a nice boyish wink that hardly belonged in this oppressively opulent room. I had no idea what it was meant to convey. On the basis that attack is the best defense, I asked firmly: "Would someone like to take these things off my elbows?"

"Come, come, my dear," said the withered character. "They do wonders for your breasts. Indulge an old man." Believe it or not, it was the first moment I'd felt naked. "I can always stick my breasts out to be admired. They're very nice breasts. They don't need handcuffs on my elbows," I told him haughtily.

"May I introduce Mr. Gyorkos," James said helpfully. "Mr. Gyorkos: Miss Euphemia Carstairs, sometimes called Phemie."

"I am much honoured," said Mr. Gyorkos. I looked at him blankly, "You're not Roland Bolling!"

"Alas no." His shrewd eyes twinkled. "You have disappointment?" I glared at James. He had the grace to look sheepish.

"There have been certain business arrangements," he said vaguely.

"You mean you've sold me already? At a profit'!" He squirmed. "The details need not concern you, Phemie."

"You are much desired young woman," said my new owner.

"I may as well be running along." James rose awkwardly. It was the first time I'd seen him uncertain. "Good-bye, sir." They shook hand with what seemed a reasonable cordiality. There was a brief awkward pause before James determinedly took the few steps that separated us and, cupping my face in his hands, kissed me soundly on my lips. It felt so good I kissed him back, hard. I had needed that kiss. It did wonders for me. He disengaged and gave me his favourite grin. "You'll be alright, Phemie." His eyes were very deep, encompassing me. "It won't always be easy, but you'll come through O.K. You're good stuff." A moment later he was gone. I had never felt so lonely in my life.

"Is nice young man," said Mr. Gyorkos. "I am trusting he fucked you well. Is good to have memories."

"I have aching arms," I said pointedly, and rattled my handcuffs. Mr. Gyorkos was one of those men deaf to the irrelevant.

"You are no doubt most curious?" he suggested pleasantly. "Will set nice English worry at rest. You are not for fuck." Then added pensively: "At least not too much." I suddenly felt ninety-nine percent pubic.

"You are for most special employment, Miss Carstairs." He said it as though I should feel grateful. I was cringingly curious. I was also shockingly aware of being naked and helpless and providing Mr. Gyorkos with a frank female frontal view. The two pairs of handcuffs on my wrists and arms had about the same effect as a dozen dungeon doors. It was useless for me to even think of getting loose, let alone actually trying. He read my thoughts. "I am expecting handcuffs most trying for young woman when naked," he consoled.

"If you take them off, I promise not to run," I offered. Then added for good measure: "I won't fight either. I know it's hopeless."

"Most sensible," he approved. "But is much best you always be — what is word? Ah, yes: restrained. It saves much punishment." He eyed me benignly. "If free, you will do foolishness. Then would get whipped for much hurting. Better to have little wrist or neck or ankle in chain or rope." He sounded as though he spoke from experience. I wondered how many naked girls had stood where I stood now. "Do I get to wear clothes?" I asked innocently.

"Am having central heating," said Mr. Gyorkos grandly. In its way his boast answered my question. I tried another: "Why me, Mr. Gyorkos? Couldn't you send me back to Castle Glynt and get some… some… local girl who wants to make some spare cash? I mean, what's so special about me?"

"You are a slave." The way he said it endowed me with a gender all my own.

"But only to Yolanda Harding!" I wailed. "She and I love each other, so being her slave girl is… just… natural. But I don't want to be a slave to anyone else. It wouldn't be any good."

"So we keep you handcuffed."

"But there's more to it than that, Mr. Gyorkos. It's a thing of the psyche and the spirit. You can keep me a prisoner, but being a true slave girl is something else."

"We give help, Miss Carstairs." His assurance was expansive. We cane your bottom and we whip your back." As an extra boost to my morale he added: "And there are other things." I was sure there were! Mr. Gyorkos was the sort who would always have 'other things'. I was feeling more and more bare all the time. My twin sets of handcuffs weighed a ton. I tried again: "But, Mr. Gyorkos, maybe I'm not quite like other girls. Grandma would say I wasn't a nice girl at all. I'm erotic. I have erotic thoughts and responses. I adore being Yolanda's slave. I'm not really fond of men, but once in awhile one of them will excite me-"

"Like nice Mr. Pollard?" He was laughing at me.

"Oh alright," I admitted despairingly. "But don't you see how useless I'll be to you when I'm frightened and forced. I love wearing Miss Harding's chains and… things. But the way you'll keep me I'll be as unhappy as any other girl."

"Is best to try before complain."

"Do I get kept in a dungeon?"